


Dark Heat

by write_light



Series: Dark Heat [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-12
Updated: 2010-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_light/pseuds/write_light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean alone in a dark cabin - but not  left alone by their thoughts of each other.  They know what they  need.  But <em>why</em><em>?</em> - that's a  whole other question.  UST  <em>de luxe</em>.  </p><p><strong>Teaser:</strong> One night while John was out chasing a lead, Dean went completely nuts,  ape-shit crazy, screaming, kicking a hole in the wall, throwing his  stuff around like so much useless nothing that it was, until the smell  hit him, settled him.  Reunion was in his hand.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a trio of stories, including "Dereliction" and "Dark Heat".
> 
> Glimpses of Sam and Dean, the Epic Love, and the tortured dark between them.
> 
>  **Prompt:** Written for [](http://spnpromptcake.livejournal.com/profile)[**spnpromptcake**](http://spnpromptcake.livejournal.com/) Round 2 and the prompt " **darkness**  "

The moon's last chink of cool light had closed two nights before, as the crescent vanished into the treetops, making way for the darkest of late-summer nights, summer greens turned black as black by night and only a dull and dusty grey-green in sunlight.  Summer had lasted beyond the lighting bugs and starry swaths, beyond the last bit of moisture that kept things going, into summer heat, summer dust, summer gone on too long.

The drought and heat silenced even the late cicadas; leaves had no more rustle – there was only a stifling, soundless dark.  The motel at the curve was not even worthy of that self-appellation, just cabins with a pay slot and a disinterested, unseen owner; serve yourself and move on.  The rooms were just a room, smaller on the inside than they were on the outside, it seemed.   It was hotter inside than out too, hotter with window open than closed, hotter at midnight than at ten p.m., when they'd arrived.

The lights-out came when Dean said so, shortly after Sam's laptop battery died fully, and just before the power cut out entirely, leaving them in a coal mine, eyes open or closed made no difference, darkness even more oppressive than the heat.  Sam wanted to talk, to plan how to attack, a diversion from the apologies they felt they owed each other but were unready to give.  But Dean was half asleep already, snoring gently as he faded out.

***   
Sam had always known that safety was the sound of Dean's voice, comfort in his breathing at night, friendship in his off-key singing in the car, and something deeper in the tone that he had used when he came to get Sam back that night in California – a tone that terrified him because it spoke directly to their need for each other, but seemed also to promise him shelter from the world. If he'd told Jess that night that there was no point to their simple little dream of a normal life, she might even have understood, might have left.  It bothered him almost as much as not telling her about the other dreams. 

Dean had showed him a lot of things in life, but Sam resisted when the topic swung around again to the magazines Dean leered at in the mini-mart and what exactly he'd like to do with those busty Asian beauties. Sam, a smart kid, picked up the basics for himself, with some help from Dad's awkward (and brief) instructional talks.  The constant baiting by Dean didn't sit well with him, because Sam knew what people _just didn't do_ and he kept those boundaries, no matter what.  Not because he was shy, but because he knew exactly what he wanted to do, and who he wanted to do it with – and it just wasn't an option.  He discovered most of it apart from Dean – getting hard, getting off, what got him off better, or faster.  And he didn't talk about it. 

***

In the cabin, in the absence of any light or sound or even scent beyond dry dust blowing in the window, he could hear Dean's breath, the edge of a snore, a pause, a small cough, and a rush of air as Dean finally fell asleep.  Here, he knew he was safe, and always had been.  He was reminded of his burden – his need to hear Dean speak, to hear his voice, his sound, but had no way to make Dean aware of that pull that he felt in his shoulders and chest, and farther down, with every word.  He indulged his deepest fantasies when Dean was safely on the other side of the bathroom door, keeping up a steady conversation on any topic, so long as Dean stayed in the game until Sam had come.

***

It was a Saturday morning in Turnhill, Pennsylvania, in a nice place for once – Dad's effort to make it up to them for taking a risky serial murder investigation while he went back to Lawrence undercover.  He'd woken with his fist around his own cock in his sleep, woken mid-dream from a vision of Dean standing over him, slowly opening his jeans, and he was in the shower jacking off when Dean knocked and shouted, "Don't use up all the hot water, dammit!" 

The "Don't" had clenched his fist tighter, "hot water" had sent a tingle down to his balls, and "dammit" had him buckling to his knees as he came so hard he stopped breathing and nearly blacked out, then the air roared out of his lungs.  His long legs, now wedged painfully against the narrow sides of the tub, cramped tight. He held his hand immobile at the base of his cock, waiting silently, as if he really wanted to keep Dean outside that door, as if it would make the orgasm stop, or make it mean something else...

"Sam? You all right?"  
   
Deep, resonant, husky, masculine…, and he kept coming with each word, as if Dean was stroking his cock with that voice.

"Sam?!"

 _Get it out Dean, give it to me, give me all of it, now-dammit-come-on-me!_

And then it was over.   
   
"Fine," Sam said, too loud.

There was a pause.

"Good."

***

In the boiling blackness of the cabin, Dean fell asleep fast because he knew Sam was right there.  Despite the heat, it wasn't sweat he smelled, or even Sam's breath, but dust and gun oil and a little of the ointment he'd picked up in the last town, put on Sam's cuts himself, on each knuckle.  He knew Sam was safe and wasn't going anywhere.  And neither was he.  He'd sworn off finding a warm mouth whenever he needed it badly enough – the gun in his face that had done it.   One quick blow job gone wrong, one long drive back to Sam, pants around his thighs, cursing himself until he skidded to a halt in the motel lot and yanked them all the way up, buckling them over the evidence of his dereliction. 

***

He'd opened the motel door to find the muzzle of his own shotgun pointed at him, Sam's anguished face set firm, ready to kill whatever was coming after him and where the hell was his brother anyway, gone in the middle of the night?  
   
"Sammy! It's me!"

"Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me.  Put that down."

 "Dean where the hell were you?!"

"Why aren't you in bed asleep?"

"Where _were_ you?"

He lied, and Sam knew it, he could tell, but he lied some more and finally got Sam to explain what had happened – a vision of blood and a view of the motel through someone else's eyes, eyes that were coming closer to their motel door, and no Impala in sight.

***

When Sam left for college, Dean knew what it was to lose his ally and his protection against their Dad, as well as his buffer against the loss of their mom.  But as the weeks passed, he became increasingly agitated, snapping at John, unable to sleep, unable to sit still in the car.  Yeah, Sam was gone, he was clear on that.  So what was his problem?  One night while John was out chasing a lead, Dean went completely nuts, ape-shit crazy, screaming, kicking a hole in the wall, throwing his stuff around like so much useless nothing that it was, until the smell hit him, settled him. 

Reunion was in his hand, and he drew it up to his nose, pressed into it, and was laughing suddenly, his face in a dirty grey t-shirt Sam had left buried in the pack they shared.  It was him, Sammy, back again, right there months later, a musky, sharp, utterly Winchester smell.  Dean sat for an hour, face in the shirt, shirt in his hands, not crying, not laughing, but not alone.  The smell faded slowly in his nose but he was himself again. 

He put the shirt back in the bag, picked up the rest of the mess, moved a highback chair in front of the hole he'd put in the fake paneling, and went out to get a beer.  Or three – one to remember Sam, one to forget, one to give him the excuse for being gone.  When he came back, his father still hadn't returned.  He pulled out Sam's shirt, the scent strong again, lay back in the chair, held the worn collar over his face, and jacked off.   He wiped off his cock with the back of Sam's shirt, where most of his load had gone anyway, and tucked it away in his pack. 

Sam was long gone when the shirt finally smelled more like Dean than it ever had like Sam.  Dean noticed the change, but he'd been able to make some kind of peace with Sam over the months.  He stopped taking the shirt out to smell it, and it barely moved anyhow, it was so covered with Dean's unleashed frustrations.  When they found themselves near a laundromat, Dean tossed it in with some other clothes, hesitating briefly, then letting go.  It hurt him, and he regretted it immediately, but the washer had churned it out of sight, out of reach.  He sat and watched the clothes slosh left and right through the entire cycle, then searched for the shirt, and pulled it out, dark and wet. 

"Come back, Sammy." 

Then it went in the dryer with the rest. 

The guys he found were so obvious – a psychologist would have a field day.  Big grins, tall, easygoing and eager.  He knew what he was doing and why he picked them and after they sucked him off he knew how much he hated them, and himself, and Sam.  Keeping his eyes closed didn't keep anything out; it even made the smells more noticeable – alcohol, heavy scents of musk, and cedar, and never his one safe place to lie back and let go.  Never his brother.  Never that good. 

Finding Sam again at Stanford was returning to the source – the smell was all around as he stepped into the apartment, determined to get Sam back at any cost.  He needed to find John, but he needed Sam more.  His eyes burned into Sam as he looked at what four years had done for his little brother.    

***

The cabin was darker than Sam thought possible.  He waited impatiently for another car to come by, rounding the curve of road and throwing bright, silent, vertical lines across the room, across their bed and Dean's face.  There had been two in the last two hours, but as 2:00 a.m. passed, the room remained as black as ever. Sam believed he could still see the afterimage of Dean's face, weary, deeply asleep, but he was adding to it from his mind's eye; he realized this when the picture he could dimly see was now Dean rolling onto his side and stroking his cock.  Sam blinked, and it was gone, into the darkness so complete that he didn't really know if there was anything else to the world but himself and the sound of Dean.

He began the rehearsed monologue again, repeating it, refining it, saying less some nights, more on other nights.  In his imagined conversation, Dean didn't respond, and Sam didn't want to think what that meant.  It never went as he hoped, and he was beginning to wonder what good an imagination was, if all it did was cling so stubbornly to logic and reality. Love would turn things upside down, ruin it. 

 _It's so dark._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Muliphein (The Strange and Breathless Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064467) by [rosereddawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosereddawn/pseuds/rosereddawn)




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